


Snapdragons on the Dresser

by Wojelah



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is very, very little plot. Possibly none. There is some very pretty clothing, though, and it gets taken off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapdragons on the Dresser

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt, obviously, was "snapdragon." Title is from [The Wife](http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/family/poetry.asp?poem=2322) by Meredith Newman. Thanks to [](http://microgirl8225.livejournal.com/profile)[**microgirl8225**](http://microgirl8225.livejournal.com/) for organizing, and to [](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/profile)[**smittywing**](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/), [](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/profile)[**smacky30**](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/), and [](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/profile)[**mingsmommy**](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading!

Rossi shuts the door behind them, but Emily's laughing hard enough that she can't hear the latch click. It has been, she thinks to herself, a pretty fantastic night. They'd thrown JJ and Will a bash for what Garcia called their "lucky not-versary" - seven years to the day after they'd goaded JJ into making a move. Garcia had left no doubt that she was taking charge of the festivities; the invitations had made it equally clear that they were all expected to dress for the occasion.

Emily is _not_ complaining. No one holds a candle to Penelope Garcia's fashion sense, but they'd all made quite the turn-out, decked to the nines. Emily's own red sheath had held up under scrutiny - or at least under Dave's scrutiny, she thinks, flushing at the memory of the look on his face when he'd picked her up.

Not - she considers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and turning around to grin at Dave, who's leaning against that same door, hands in his pockets, smiling back lazily - that he hadn't entirely surpassed her own expectations. Emily figures she can count on two hands the number of times she's actually seen the man wear a suit - although he pulls off the whole jacket-shirt-jeans look very, _very_ well. Particularly in one particularly distracting pair of jeans. But tonight.... Well. It's a _hell_ of a suit.

It's a deep, true, black - the kind that means good fabric - with just of a pinstripe to make Emily terribly, terribly aware of the clean lines of his legs and torso. Under it, he's wearing a crisp grey shirt, perfectly matched to the pinstripe and giving off the dull sheen of hand-woven cotton, paired with a silk tie just slightly lighter. When he'd met her at the door earlier that evening, his hands full of a brilliant bouquet of red and white snapdragons, she'd stopped and stared.

Of course, he'd done the same thing. It is, Emily admits, a pretty great dress. And she knows she's wearing the hell out of it. The deep not-quite-burgundy shade makes her hair shine and her skin glow and between the stilettos and the empire waist it looks like she's got legs up to there. Emily knows how to make good use of what she's got, when she wants to. Tonight, she's glad she wanted to, because just the look on Dave's face is making her wet.

It might be a little more than the look on his face. That suit's impeccably tailored, calling attention to broad shoulders and strong arms and a very nice ass. She's spent most of the night watching him from across the room, because she'd figured if they spent too long in proximity to each other, they might go up like kindling.

She thinks Dave probably agrees, for all he hasn't offered her so much as an innuendo all night. He's been a perfect gentleman - every gesture, every touch precisely correct, not a moment too long or a fraction too strong, but as arousing as if she'd been naked in front of him. Possibly more so. Earlier that night, when she'd broken off a spray from the snapdragons and tucked it in his buttonhole, there'd been a moment where she hadn't been sure they were going to make it to the party.

Rossi shifts his weight, still leaning against the door, and Emily becomes acutely aware that she's been staring. He quirks her a smile, nearly a smirk, and the zing of heat down her spine has nothing to do with embarrassment. She licks her lips, her mouth gone dry, and watches his eyes spark. "Should I tell you," she says quietly, soft enough that he has to work to hear it, "exactly how good I think you look in that suit?"

"That depends," he answers calmly, but all the tailoring in the world can't hide the very clear evidence of her effect on him.

She is never getting rid of this dress.

Emily takes a single, not-quite-predatory step forward, staying just out of arm's reach. "On?"

"On whether you're going to let me look up your skirt as you walk up the stairs."

Her knees don't wobble, but it's a near thing. She reaches out for the banister, thankful the stairs are close, because she is way too distracted to be wearing three-inch heels right now. Emily takes a deep breath - deeper than she really needs, even as wired as she is - and watches Dave clench his jaw. She slides her free hand down her side, over her hip, feeling the fabric catch against her palm. "Mister," she says, turning and taking the first step, "you have yourself a deal."

She takes her time about it, conscious of the sway of her body and the sound of Dave moving away from the door. His gaze is palpable - it lies heavy on her skin and sets every nerve tingling. Her legs slip against each other with every step, but it's not nearly the friction she's craving, not as slick as she is. Emily wonders if he really can see up her skirt from there, if he can tell, if he knows she's been this way at least half the night.

When she hits the top of the stairs, she disappears around the corner with an extra little twitch of her hip. The choked laugh from the first floor suggests it hasn't gone unappreciated. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, she feels restless, unsettled as she listens to the sound of Dave downstairs, closing the place up for the night. It's not an altogether unpleasant tension; if she were a betting woman, she'd guess he's doing this on purpose, teasing both of them just a little longer, making the fizz on her skin sink in just a little deeper.

Two can play at that game.

She loves when Dave undresses her, loves the contrast of callused hands and silky fabric, the heat and weight of his touch. Ordinarily - as if whatever this is can really be called ordinary - ordinarily, she'd wait for him. But she _likes_ this dress, and she's not sure she can guarantee it would make it through tonight without the need for major repairs, they're both that keyed up.

More importantly, she knows what the deep plunge of her bra does for her figure, and she knows his weakness for garter belts and heels and stockings with the seams up the back of her legs just so. Emily Prentiss has planned this outfit with a lot of attention to detail.

It's a pretty easy decision, then, to slip the clasp on the halter neck and tug the zipper just far enough down her back that she can wriggle free. The lining slips and slides against her, firing her nerves like crazy; she's desperately glad by the time she finally steps free. She hangs the thing up carefully, listening for Dave's tread on the stairs.

When she hears it, she's already settled down into the armchair. The lamp in the corner's on, but nothing else. The room is warm and shadowed, but it's not at all soothing - she can feel the her anticipation tingling under her skin, in the throb of her pulse. Emily crosses her legs, shivering at the pressure on her clit, and waits for Dave to come through the door.

\---

Emily is not, by nature, a patient person. She has _learned_ patience over time: it's a requisite for the job. But it's a cultivated patience, the kind that gets layered over the urge to squirm and fret. She isn't like Dave, who has the natural patience of a hunter - that ability to wait and wait and see what happens without wanting to rush things along. She isn't like Dave, and it might - she thinks, as the pad of Dave's thumb traces the swell of her breast and then lifts away - it might be the death of her.

Her eyes are closed. A lifetime ago - minutes, hours, years, she doesn't know - he'd come up the stairs and into the room and the wisecrack she'd had on her tongue had died away at the look on his face. She'd flushed hard, light-headed with want, but she'd gotten to her feet with a modicum of grace and crossed to him. She'd attended to cuffs and collar, setting the studs carefully on the dresser. She'd pulled out the tail of his shirt, reaching around and under his jacket carefully, forcing herself to keep her touches light, functional, strictly limited to what was necessary. She'd taken her time with his shirt, inch by inch, denying the urge to tear and curse at the buttons. And all the while he'd watched her, and she'd felt him watching her, and he'd kept his hands carefully on the doorframe or at his sides, not touching, not testing. Just watching. They hadn't said a word.

Then she'd pulled the spray of snapdragons free of his jacket, holding his gaze as she did so, brushing the petals over her lips before she set it, too aside.

They'd watched each other, until Dave had reached out with one large, hot hand and cupped the back of her neck. She'd shuddered, hauling in a great gasp of a breath, and he'd shucked off jacket and shirt - and then everything had become a desperate, laughing, frantic blur.

He'd dumped the sheets and blankets off the bed and onto the floor, although he'd chuckled and obliged when she'd demanded at least one pillow, and then he'd taken off her bra and panties and garter belt and stockings in slow, maddening steps. She's still not sure when he shed the rest of his own clothing. Now, the fitted sheet is cool and smooth against her hyperaware skin, equal parts torture and relief, and her eyes are closed. Because he'd asked her, his voice deep and rough, as he'd tugged the last of her stocking off of her foot. Because he'd asked. Because it's Rossi, and she trusts him.

She smooths a hand over her stomach, shivering a little at the contact. There's the sound of Dave dragging the armchair closer, the shift of fabric against skin as he sits. She balls her hand into a fist, just over her navel; he picks it up and rubs his thumb over the back of her hand. It's not until he uncurls her fingers, his touch feather-light against her palm, that she cracks a little.

"Rossi," she says, forcing herself to swallow and licking at dry lips. It's not a question, exactly, nor a plea, but she feels a little at sea.

"Emily," he answers, drawing a line up the inside of her wrist that makes her jump. She arches her back just a little, on purpose, just to get in a little of her own. "Just listen." She can hear his grin, but the tension's thick in his voice.

"You know I suck at following directions," she mutters.

Dave laughs and lets go of your and. "It'll be worth it," he promises. She hears him shift, feels the mattress dip as he puts a hand next to her head and leans down. He kisses her cheek first, then her temple, his lips warm against her skin. She can smell his cologne and the clean, sharp smell that is only Rossi; when he kisses her mouth, she opens up to him easily, curling a hand around his neck to keep him from pulling away. It's gentle, almost lazy, and every time she tries to demand more, he backs away and keeps it slow. When they break for breath, she's nearly dizzy with the taste of him on her tongue, with the heat and slide of his body under her hands.

He shifts, the mattress dipping around her as he ducks his head to kiss her shoulder. He brushes his beard over her stomach and she laughs, low and husky. She's clutching at him; she can't seem to get enough air. "You," Dave mutters, the words vibrating over her skin. "You make me crazy." She feels the blush sweep over her, head to toe, but if Dave notices, he doesn't miss a beat. "Do you have any idea?"

Emily opens her mouth, but any answer she might have tried gets sidetracked as Dave pulls back, far enough that cool air hits her skin and makes her shiver even as she protests. "Do you know?" he asks again, and if he hadn't asked her to close her eyes, she'd open them at the tone that enters his voice. He runs a hand along her shoulder, over her breasts, across the span of her hips. "Can you see it?"

"I can't see _anything_," she grouses breathlessly. "My eyes are closed."

Dave chuffs a laugh, and then he covers her hands, his palms against the backs of hers. "Guess I'll just have to show you."

She feels ridiculous, like a marionette, as he moves her hand up to brush against her neck, running down over her skin to trace between her breasts. She starts to argue, but then Dave fills their hands with her breasts, warm and smooth against her fingers, cupping her hands gently so they apply just barely enough pressure, and the combination of her/him/them/good is so confusing that she loses the thread. "Dave," she growls.

"You have amazing breasts," he says quietly, brushing a finger over her nipple. Emily hauls in air, tipping her head back, trying to press up into their combined grasp. "Sometimes," he continues, "sometimes I watch you across the table, or walk into a room, and I think about the last time I got to see them." Emily grins, but he keeps going before she can speak. "Sometimes I think about the way you touch them when we're alone, the way you touch them sometimes, just before you come, when they're flushed and full."

Their hands haven't moved, the pressure hasn't changed, but Emily's nipples are aching. "Oh," she says, shifting on the bed, against the cool, cool sheets. "Oh, Dave. I want - I want that."

"Do it," he says, letting go of one of her hands. "Do it." It's like her brain has disengaged; she can't seem to think in a straight line. She cups her breast hard, cries out as she rolls her nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her hips jerk, a reflex she can't - and wouldn't - stop, and her clit throbs. She tries to chase after it, her fingers desperate against her own skin, but Dave links his hand with hers again and pulls her away, sweeping their hands over her belly, over her hips, up her sides. "Shh," he soothes, "just wait."

"I am going to kill you later," she pants. "As soon as I can find my brain."

Dave laughs. "Clearly, I'm not doing it right," he answers, as their hands trace over her skin. "You're still coherent."

"Barely," she mutters, but then Dave shifts their hands down between her legs, tracing a hot line that's almost but not quite close enough. Emily bucks after it, breath catching, and he does it again, then moves their hands away, back to that slow, maddening caress.

"Do you see that?" Dave asks, and the heat in his voice makes her skin tingle. "Do you have any idea how much I want that?" He slides their hands down till they're resting on her mound, a warm, heavy weight that makes the pleasant, needy ache between her legs turn hot and demanding. She tries to tug him down further, just a little, just enough, but he won't follow, although he gladly obliges when she moves her other hand back to her breast. "You have no idea," he says thickly, "what that feels like when I'm inside you."

The image he's painting, of the two of them, in bed, twined around each other, goes straight to her clit, her inner muscles clenching as she tilts her hips up - anything to get their hands that much closer. She can feel how wet she is, the slickness under her fingertips, and she can't help herself when she says his name.

"You have no idea," he says again, "what that feels like, when you've got your legs wrapped around me, when you're right there with me, when I can hear that noise you make in the back of your throat." His voice is low, barely a murmur, licking along her nerves like lightning. She's pulled her knees up and in, her hips rocking shamelessly against the pressure of their hands. It's nowhere near enough.

"Rossi," she manages to say, tugging at his hand harder, "Dave, please, come _on_."

"Yeah," Dave answers, pulling his hands away, letting her go. Her finger on her clit is a relief at first - Emily knows how she likes to be touched, and she's well past any hesitation at this point. With her eyes closed, it's like the world has narrowed to the sound of her breathing and the heat that's skittering over her skin, pooling in her breasts and between her legs, as she twists under her own hands. Only it's not enough - she can feel her body tightening, can feel the orgasm starting to build, but she's not there, not yet, and she's so desperate for it she feels like she might fly apart.

"Dave," she begs, wanting his hands back, needing and knowing exactly what she needs.

"Anything," he says in reply. "Just name it."

"Fingers," Emily manages, and she might be ashamed in the morning, but right now she couldn't care less. "Your fingers. Fuck," she groans, as she does something very right and her whole body bows. "Rossi," she growls. "Now."

The touch of his hand on her inner thigh makes her jump. "Easy," he murmurs, tracing a path. His other hand's back on her breast - she knows because she's holding it there, desperate for the pressure and the heat and the friction.

She's going to kill him - except his voice is just as strained as hers. "I don't _want_ easy," she says, reaching for his wrist, hearing her voice crack. He doesn't let her hurry him, though - just takes his sweet time and slides two fingers in, slow and smooth. She freezes for a moment, feeling the burn in her thighs, the quivering tension in her back, and then Dave starts to move his hand, crooking a finger just enough, just right. She's twisting, aching with the need to race after the orgasm that's just out of reach but close enough to taste.

"Look at you," he murmurs, loud enough that she can hear him over her gasps for breath, as she fucks herself on his hand. "Look at you. Take it, Emily," he urges. "Take what you need. Whatever you want," he says, but that's it, she's gone, calling out as her body shakes and shivers. She might, she thinks, be crying, just a little. She isn't sure.

She does know that this isn't over yet - she's still needy and wound tight, and when Dave takes his hand away, she manages a protest. "Come _here_," she demands. She can't see him, can't feel him, and the only thing she seems to want right now is to have him around her, to lose herself in him.

"Yeah," he answers, and the bed dips. Then he's there, his hands slipping up and under her shoulders as he rests on his forearms, his cock hot between them. She curves up and into him, craving the contact, needing the press of his body against hers, the feeling of his weight pressing her down against the bed. His muscles are corded tight; she can feel the tremor run down his spine as she moves her hips, reaching down between them, brushing her fingers gently against his length. She'd laugh about Tab A and Slot B, really, if Slot B wasn't about to climb out of her skin with wanting Tab A.

He drops his forehead against her shoulder, his exhale harsh and shaky, and that's when Emily finds _her_ voice. "Do you know," she says, enjoying the play of muscle under her hands, the rise and fall of his chest against hers, "do you know how lucky I am?" She shifts again, setting up a slow, gentle rocking that makes him groan. "Do you have any idea what it's like, being so wrapped up in you that I can't _think_ straight? That I can't think of anything else?"

She hauls in a breath, looking for the right words, wishing she could just look at him, but she told him she'd keep her eyes closed. Then Dave mutters her name, and the tone of his voice suggests maybe she _had_ said it right, after all. He shifts his weight onto his arms, leaning in to kiss her. She twines a leg around his hips, shifting, adjusting, until it's just there, just right, and he pushes into her in one long, sweet stroke. Emily tilts her head back, gasping when Dave presses a kiss at the hollow of her throat. She can't see a damn thing, but then, she doesn't need to. Touch, taste, smell, sound - he's around her and on her and inside her, everywhere she needs him to be.

He's moving strong and steady - she thinks she can feel every movement, in and out, her whole body trembling with it, as she tries to meet him, match him, bring him along with her. When she comes, it hits her hard and it takes him with her. As the aftershocks roll over them, she holds to Dave like they're both in danger of washing away.

She lets him go when he pulls away, the air suddenly too cool against her overheated skin, listening to him pad across the room, savoring the ache in her muscles, the taste of Dave on her tongue. She finally opens her eyes when he curses, and laughs as he wrestles with the tangle of sheets and blankets. She's boneless, wrecked, and profoundly happy. Dave settles back onto the bed next to her, tugging the comforter up and around them and pulling her back against him. She goes willingly, wrapping an arm around his waist and tucking up against his shoulder. Warmth is creeping over her. "Do you know?" she murmurs at Dave.

"How lucky we are?" he rumbles in response. "Yeah. I might have an idea."


End file.
